


The Women Who Surround Me

by septembersongs



Series: Dance Me to the Children That're Asking to be Born [1]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Children of Characters, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24162811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septembersongs/pseuds/septembersongs
Summary: It's molting season for a whiny teenager in the Dark Forest, and Bog is a Good Father(tm).
Relationships: Bog King/Marianne (Strange Magic)
Series: Dance Me to the Children That're Asking to be Born [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743778
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	The Women Who Surround Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://jhameia.tumblr.com/post/160243465476/i-got-diagnosed-with-type-2-diabetes-last-week-and).

The sunshine streamed into the throne room from a skylight overhead the ruler of the Dark Forest. Said ruler was reading documents, taking advantage of the nocturnal nature of his subjects to catch up on paperwork and written reports. 

A groan from the door of the throne room caught his ear and he looked up to find his eldest daughter, Lydia, rubbing her eyes and walking sluggishly. When she found her father was, indeed, where she hoped he would be, she burst out into a drawn-out whine, "Daddyyyyy..."

Bog knew that he had different titles as a parent to his children. "Father" was for the public, when they were trying, usually uncomfortably, to fit in as formally as possible before their subjects: to show the fairies that they were not the uncivilized goblins their father was reputed to be; to show the goblins they weren't the weak fairies of their mother's heritage. "Father" was also when they were angry with something he had done and, like their mother, were unafraid to take up with him. 

"Dad" was when they were among family, feeling safe enough to be informal, at ease with themselves and the world. "Dad" flew with them in explorations of the forest and field, trained them, ate with them and laughed with them, sometimes at them. 

"Daddy," however, was specially deployed when they wanted something from him: a sweet, a toy. "Daddy" was the call for his attention and, rarely, a sign of distress. 

It was not often that his eldest called for Daddy, so he looked up from his papers at the gangly adolescent shambling towards him in exaggerated fatigue. 

"Nox wants me to review and revise last century's history," she complained.

He nodded. "And?"

"I don't wanna," she sniffled. "I'm so tired."

He glanced over her: the tight exoskeleton, showing signs of splitting, already flaking in places. Ah. "Molting?" he asked sympathetically. He remembered being that age and molting: the intense discomfort that accompanied the growth spurt, bringing hours upon hours of tetchy behaviour.

She responded with a pout, pushing out her lower lip and giving him the saddest expression possible. His blue eyes. And all their expressiveness too, Marianne claimed, though Lydia had apparently learned to manipulate them to an artistic degree. (This he blamed on the influence of Aunt Dawn.) It had taken him a while to really accept that yes, this lily-white goblin-fairy child was indeed his, with her blue eyes and petal head and smooth chitin. She was achingly beautiful to look at, and Bog, still not totally convinced he wasn't hideous, thought it an enthralling twist in life that such a lovely child was, in fact, a product of his union to the Fairy Queen. 

He put his paperwork aside and held his arms out to that child now, pulling her onto his lap. She was getting large for it, but she accepted his paternal ministrations as he crooned her assurances that it would be fine. Faintly, he felt pleased that she still sought him for comfort despite her age, allaying the pang he felt that soon, she wouldn't, because she would be an adult in her own right, with no need of him. Each molt was a sign of that impending end, and he had resolved not to let any moment pass when he could have the privilege of his children's neediness.

"Your highness?" called a goblin from the throne room entrance. "You really must--oh! Your Majesty." The tutor bowed. "Ah, sire, she-"

Bog waved the tutor away. "It's fine, Nox. Let her be for the day."

Nox bobbed another bow and was off. 

"Thanks," Lydia muttered. 

"No problem," he said. "Rest now." He cradled her with one arm and went back to his paperwork with another. Soon, he felt her even breathing as she dozed off. 

A shadow above and the flapping of butterfly wings disturbed him next, and he looked up as Marianne landed by his side, chuckling. "Look at you," she said smugly, sitting on the arm of his throne. She cupped his face to draw it up for a kiss. "I seem to recall you worrying about being a good father." 

He had; Dagda had complained about having daughters, and Bog had been worried that he wouldn't be able to keep up. It turned out that sons and daughters were equal handfuls, even the child who decided they were neither, and Bog had fretted about having more than one. His father, his father's father, and all the kings in his line, as far back as he could trace, seemed to only have had one child apiece. He seemed destined to be different, with what was occasionally condescendingly called a brood. 

He smiled into Marianne's kiss. "Just doing my best," he whispered back.

"I'd say you're doing very well." A long kiss later, she breathed against his ear, "wanna make another one?"

His reply was a throaty chuckle as he kissed her again.

"Ew YUCK," Lydia exclaimed, throwing her arms over her face as she turned over on Bog's lap. He tightened his arm around her so she wouldn't fall off. She made no other move to get away, just squirmed in her performance of disgust. 

Marianne laughed. "But you love helping with the eggs." 

"Doesn't mean I wanna know you made them!"

"I hear a baby is molting!" Griselda announced as she came in.

"Grandmama," Lydia groaned, and Bog wasn't sure because she was embarrassed, or milking the grandmotherly attention that was fast approaching.

"Aw, poor dearie, you want a snail egg?" Said grandmother was now brandishing a plate of the snack, comfort food for goblins, especially molting goblins. 

Lydia beamed. 

"Say 'aahh,'" Griselda cooed.

"Oh really, Lydia," Marianne gently scolded. "Surely you can take the plate from Grandmama." 

This fell into a sickeningly domestic bicker and laughter and Bog considered the different women of his life: his spoiled daughter, his loving wife, and his doting mother. He wanted to scoop them all into his arms and hug them tight. He wanted to yell his contentment to the sky. 

Instead, the Bog King of the Dark Forest leaned back and watched the sun stream down on the lights of his life.


End file.
